


Wolf

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2014 Dean/2014 Castiel/2009 Dean. Endverse. <i>Tomorrow is the day he will die.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf

One toe in the water, he looks back to see Dean coming towards him over the grass. He smiles, though Dean’s mouth is a thin, angry line, his gait taut and hurried.

“Cas!” he calls before he even gets there, and the angel raises his hand in a lazy salute as Dean gets to him, fists trembling.

“ _Salut, Capitaine_.” But Dean is having none of it.

“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been looking for you for twenty minutes.” His eyes go to the long, blue lake spread out in front of Cas’ bare feet, and he frowns. “What are you doing?”

Cas shrugs. Pulls one of his feet up onto the shore. “You ever wake up in the morning and think, _today will be different?”_

Dean shuffles uncomfortably. “C’mon, Cas. Everyone’s in the car.”

Cas ignores him. “It’s a funny thing. I woke up, I thought that, and I came out here. Five in the morning.” He laughs to himself. “See, I was going to Virginia Woolf it, right? Pocket full of stones, a poem in my mouth.” He’s got Dean’s attention. He turns away, to look at the water. “And it’s the funniest thing. I couldn’t do it.”

“Yeah?” Dean’s voice is low, carefully pitched, not quite uncaring. His feet scuff the grass at Cas’ side.

“I was worried I’d ruin the boots you gave me.” And he laughs properly then, because they’re unlaced, lying beside him in the grass. Dead leather things, dull. Dean grabs his shoulder, tries to haul him up, but Cas is too fast for him – he stops laughing, the tremor of a giggle still on his lips. He grabs Dean’s sleeve, tight. Hauls him down, hauls him close, face to face. “Ridiculous, right?” he says, mouth twitching up; but his voice has dropped to the barest whisper, and Dean is staring at him, terrified.

He fits his hand to Dean’s jaw and forces their mouths together. A brief, wet kiss on his end; a recoil of shock and horror on Dean’s. Dean rears back – pulls out of Cas’ grip, quick as lightning, pulls his arm back, throws it forward, and sloppily punches him in the face.

For a moment, Cas’ vision is completely white.

“New things, today.” Cas murmurs, even though Dean is breathing hard, standing straight again, looking down at him. He touches a hand to the pain blooming beneath his eye. Dean spits on the grass next to him, and Cas barely contains the chuckle that escapes his mouth.

“What use will you be, anyway.” Dean murmurs, looking down at him. He closes his eyes in disgust; Cas watches his face change, move. Skims his toes against the surface of the water. “We found the Colt.” He says, with venom. Turns heel, and walks away as fast as he can. Cas watches him tread through the grass.

Today is a day for differences. For mistakes, and for successes.

Tomorrow is the day he will die.

 

…

 

He’s not surprised to see Dean-of-the-past, nor the fear in his eyes. The world they live in – the world Cas is forced to crawl around on his knees in – is darker, more terrible, than even the world Dean lived in as a five-year-old – that dark place of huge figures, of adults and the terrifying things they did. Here the adults are larger, the humans less human, and more horrific than even humans can be.  He knows he’s probably the scariest of them all; no longer straight-laced, no longer dependable. A shabby blue blur in a body not his own, which he abuses.

Dean’s eyes rarely leave him, and it makes his insides _twitch._

So he watches the proceedings, strange as they are. Observes. Needles their ‘leader’ with pointed glances, which Dean – _his_ Dean – dutifully ignores. When Dean comes back with the Colt, after his little ‘brief’, Cas waits by the doorway to his cabin – grabs his arm again, pulls him close, so they’re chest to chest.

“Well done today.” He breathes, hot, against Dean’s cheek. Dean doesn’t pull away.

“Thanks.” He looks from Cas’ eyes to his mouth. Dips down to kiss him, sliding a hand into the ex-angel’s hair, then pulls away. “Why did you do that, before? What do you want from me?” he says, voice _broken,_ and that makes Cas’ insides twitch, too.

“Nothing.” He says, pulling him in again. Sliding his tongue into Dean’s mouth, ears full of the wet, sucking noises their mouths make together. “Nothing at all.”

Dean pulls back and looks at him, and his eyes are sad. “You’re a fucking liar.” He murmurs.

He leans his forehead against Cas’, entwined with him against the doorframe. Then he pulls out of Cas’ arms, and walks away.

 

…

 

Cas is sitting on the porch, not sleeping, when the boy comes to see him. He’s rolling a clump of mud into a ball between his palms, his fingers. Swapping hands, the movement sinuous and unbroken. Dean  - Dean the _boy –_ stands on the steps in front of him, watching his hands in whatever orange light comes through the windows from the lamps inside Cas’ cabin.

“I saw you.” He says, a tremor in his speech that should be long gone, by now. “You and me.” He says, to clarify, though Cas knew what he meant, already.

“Yeah?” his eyes are on the dirt in his hands. His palms are gritty with dust. “You liked it?”

“Are we like that?” Dean asks him, avoiding the question. “You and me, do we do that, here?”

Cas raises his head. “Sure. Today, we do.”

“Just today?”

The ex-angel nods. He brushes his palms together; lets the ball of dirt drop from between his hands, roll off his lap as he stands up. As he treads, bare-footed, across the floor towards the boy, who is watching him with eyes wide. Not an innocent, no – but compared to his double, almost. Cas drops his foot one stair. Leans in close to his face. “What do you want from me?”

This boy doesn’t know it’s an echo, doesn’t know Cas is testing him. Still, he passes. He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Liar.” Cas grins, and kisses him, and is kissed.

He’s a blur of hands, like a goddess, walking backwards to the cabin door. He lets this Dean, the Dean not his, crowd him against the wood, tug at his clothes, huff breaths against his cheek as they kiss. With his own hands he spreads his fingers on the flesh of Dean’s hips. He smells good; not like blood at all. Cas doesn’t know if the same can be said for himself.

He laughs when he turns the doorknob, swings the door wide, stumbles them both backwards. Pulls Dean with him to the bed and is surprised when Dean’s hands stay sure, stay confident. The door swings wide, but the sky is dark outside, and it’s not warm anywhere. It doesn’t matter.

Dean climbs over him and tries to hold his hands. He looks at Cas’s exposed, white wrists, and stops short.

“Are you still even _you?”_ he says, carefully tracing Cas’ palm with a thumb, and Cas can’t answer, so he pays attention to his jeans, instead; gets his hands between the two of them and undoes the button; Dean lets him haul them down.

It’s nothing like he imagined; this sweet, soft boy in his arms, no holster on his leg, no steely taint in his gaze. This Dean loves him; loves him in the past, loves _the angel that saved him_ , and Cas can maybe give him that, If he tries hard enough.

He sits up as he pulls Dean’s shirt off; lets Dean get his hands on his stomach, feel the way his ribs stick out from his flesh. Kisses him to distract from questions; wraps a hand around his cock, hot and heavy and wet against his fingers, and bites the gasp from this Dean’s mouth.

He knows, then, that the other – _his –_ is standing in the doorway. That he can hear them, the noise it makes, flesh on flesh. He pulls this Dean closer to him; mouths at his shoulder and looks at the silhouette the other onecasts, hand slack on the doorframe, lips parted, eyes rapt. He is blind for the second that the younger Dean pulls his shirt up and over his head; and in that second, Dean, in the doorway, makes a sound.

“Cas.” He breathes, and the man sat on Cas’ hips, his cock in Cas’ hand, stiffens in shock. Turns.

The moment, hazy at least to Castiel’s eyes, lingers too long.

He thinks he must have something left in him. Something that can slow down time; can manufacture love. He reaches his hand out to the Dean in the doorway, and that Dean stumbles forward, as if tripped, when Cas beckons. Approaches the two of them with a wide and wary gaze.

He remembers to close the door. Castiel laughs into the shoulder of the man in his lap.

For a moment, _his_ Dean stands looking at them, at the image of the two of them together. Half of what could have been, a long, long time ago. Then he swallows, hard. Still, he says nothing.

He ignores the image of himself as if it is an apparition; climbs onto the bed on his knees and tugs Cas’ face to his. Kisses him, slow.

The two Deans, side by side, look at him when he pulls away. The contrast, at once huge and entirely unnoticeable, makes him lift his hands; makes him touch both their shoulders. The younger man shudders. The older just looks at Cas, steady. Just lifts his own hand to brush the hair from Cas’ face. To let his thumb linger against his brow.

They ignore each other , almost. For a moment the older Dean looks at his counterpart; eyes raking over his less-troubled brow, his less-scarred skin. At the handprint which, on his own body, is long, long gone; but it is like they are a mirror of each other, albeit inexact; like they _cannot_ touch, not truly; can only press their hands against the surface of the glass.

Words would break it. Cas lets go of the cock in his hand, and he and the Dean in his lap watch the other man undress; throw his jacket on the floor first, then tug his shirt over his head. Work his jeans off his hips, revealing scar after scar; the star-shaped bullet wounds, dug out bits of shrapnel; the slashes and the puckered, wrinkled, pink outline of a recent burn. Cas shuffles underneath the weight of the younger Dean until he gets the idea – he climbs off his thighs and watches as Cas pushes his loose pants off his legs, gets them over his knees and onto the floor, where they crumple in a puddle. For a moment, the three of them – Cas and the mirror images – are still.

The younger Dean waits, kneeling, his cock still flushed and heavy against his stomach, apparently not dissuaded by the situation; Cas rises onto his own knees to meet him – crawls forward, kisses him briefly on the mouth, then pushes, gently, on the centre of his chest to get him to lie back. He goes willingly; eyes on Cas’, trusting, like he would with Castiel. With his elbows against the sheets, he watches Cas crawl up him again, watches him settle over his hips, watches him reach behind himself and work a finger into himself, then two; eyes dropping shut, flickering open, low-lidded, to see Dean’s expression. Behind him, Dean, the older, makes a low noise like it was pulled from him on a long cord, rasping at the column of his throat.

The younger Dean says, _“Cas.”_ And his hands, blind, scrabble at the ex-angel’s hips, clutch his flesh, shaking. It’s not wet enough, not nearly; but Dean’s cock is wet and _there_ beneath him, the heat of it against the backs of his legs, and it’s too much of a risk to break this, to get up and be safe about it, however much it pains him to think of this younger man, hurt. He’s done this before. He’ll be alright, he thinks, and takes hold of Dean’s cock, and sinks down on it, slow as torture, drawing from the body beneath him a sharp, unrestrained hiss of breath – a _fuck, Cas, jesus, Cas –_ and a pair of large, warm hands settle on his shoulders from behind as the older Dean fits his chest as best he can to Cas’ back. Mouths at the skin beneath his ear.

“You wanted _this_ ,” He murmurs, soft so the other Dean can’t hear, punctuating the words with a soft kiss, and Cas laughs, even as he starts to move. The younger Dean’s hands settle on his waist, tips of his fingers brushing the other Dean’s stomach.

“Not exactly.” he murmurs back, drawing breath fast between the words, fucking himself, achingly slow, on the younger’s cock as Dean mutters obscenities beneath him. The older Dean’s voice loses its mocking edge when he next speaks.

“I wanted-“

Cas cuts him off. “I know.” He says, but the talk is too sober for this, and Cas’ hands are restless. He takes one of Dean’s hands from his shoulder and guides it down his stomach; presses it against his cock. Lets Dean feel the heat, the heft of him; laces their fingers together around it, coaxes him into a slow rhythm, their hands sliding up and down, Cas tilting his head back against Dean’s shoulder. They speak, both of them; the Dean beneath him, pupils blown wide, groans when Cas moves, says his name, says blasphemies. He _rolls_ onto him, pulling back so he’s almost all the way out, then pushing back down again, slow, his back sliding against the older Dean’s chest, rhythm only barely kept. The Dean at his back takes his other hand from Cas’ shoulder and presses his forehead against the side of Cas’ neck, breathing wet against his skin. Cas can feel Dean’s fist, knuckles against Cas’ spine, jacking himself. Dean’s words get shallow and shaky – devolve into just the syllable of his name.

The younger Dean’s words cease; he grips, bruising, at the flesh of Cas’ waist; lifts his hips to try and fuck him harder,  but Cas holds him down, pushing the slow roll, the rhythm that draws it out of him. He comes, a slow roil, over his and the older Dean’s joined hands; and the younger, beneath him, watches it happen; murmurs, _fuck,_ in hoarse disbelief; wet heat fills Castiel moments later, and he rolls, still, through the mess, even as he feels it leaking out of him. The Dean at his back works Castiel through the aftershocks, his other hand getting faster and faster on himself, until he, too, almost silent, spasms and then sags against Cas’ back, dropping his forehead onto his shoulder; his wet hand rubbing slow circles on the flesh of Cas’ stomach.

The two Deans don’t look at each other; the younger one grunts when Cas climbs off him to go to the bathroom. He leaves them there, in the dark room, to observe on another. To his knowledge, they don’t speak.

In the bathroom there isn’t a mirror; nor is there a light. It’s for a reason. But, Cas thinks, if there was a mirror he would look in it now, and see himself changed.

He splashes water on his face; sits down on the toilet and lets everything drop out of him, head in his hands, elbows on his knees.

Tomorrow is the day he will die, and he knows it, now, more fully than ever.

In the other room he hears murmuring, but he won’t go. Not yet.

He looks at his own hands; at the knuckles of his fingers, how his palms are wide, and white, and still wet from the sink. He maps the shape of his face with his hands, slowly probing each bone of it; the hollows where his eyes sit.

He doesn’t know if he’s sin or sinner, sinned against or the villain of the piece. If he’s done something wrong, tonight, or if he did something wrong in pulling both those souls out of hell.

He stands. Goes to the window, wetness dribbling down the inside of his leg.

Against the window pane, with one finger, he traces a protective sigil, for all the good it will do them, now.

He goes back to them, and they look up at him with twin green eyes; he sits down on the bed, wordless. He curls into a ball against the pillows, to sleep, and wraps an arm around one of their waists, to pull him down, too. He doesn’t know which.

They sleep, a-tangle, the three of them, until morning breaks, and when they wake – naked, all of them confused by the light – he can barely tell the difference between their faces.

It doesn’t matter.

 


End file.
